After the boardroom ambush, Ethan Cross needed a reminder of why he had fought so hard to take over this club.
He needed football.
Real, muddy, chaotic football.
Not suits arguing about "brand strategy" while sipping coffee that tasted like burned regret.
The smell of the grass. The shouting of coaches. The thud of a ball smashed slightly too hard against a fence.
That's why, before the sun was even fully up, Ethan found himself at Carrington, sitting in a freezing cold office next to Erik ten Hag, who looked terrifyingly energetic for 6:45 AM.
"You look like death warmed up," Ten Hag said, sipping black coffee strong enough to melt steel.
"You should see the other guys," Ethan croaked, collapsing into the chair.
Ten Hag smirked and pointed at the giant tactical board behind him. It was already full of diagrams—squiggly arrows, frantic triangles, and tiny stick figures that seemed to be either running tactical patterns or panicking.
"So," Ten Hag said brightly, "ready to fix Manchester United before breakfast?"
"I was hoping for breakfast first," Ethan muttered.
"No time. Revolution waits for no man."
Ethan sighed. Should've stayed in bed.
The Problems Unveiled
Ten Hag dragged a magnetic board closer like a mad scientist revealing his evil plan.
"First," he said, flicking little magnets around, "our pressing is about as organized as a drunk stag party."
Ethan winced as he watched the magnets spread randomly across the board.
"Some players press. Others hesitate. Gaps form. Opponents stroll through."
"Like Liverpool did last season?" Ethan asked grimly.
"Like you give free beer to Liverpool midfielders and tell them to enjoy themselves," Ten Hag replied without blinking.
"Charming."
"Second problem—transition. Slow. Predictable. Safe."
He mimed a slow-motion sideways pass.
Ethan groaned. "Feels like watching my grandad trying to send a text."
Ten Hag nodded solemnly. "Same energy."
Third, and most dangerous:
a poisonous attitude still lingered among some players.
They didn't live for football.
They lived for TikTok views and collabs with fast fashion brands.
Ten Hag leaned forward.
"We need players who bleed for this badge. Not players who take selfies after losing 3-0."
Ethan scribbled notes furiously:
Step One: Find Warriors. Kill Influencers.
He crossed it out quickly when Ten Hag raised an eyebrow.
The Blueprint for Revolution
They started brainstorming like madmen.
New identity for United:
High pressing: Organized chaos. Hunt in packs.
Fast transitions: Play like the ball is lava—move it fast or get burned.
Squad trim: Ruthless. If you didn't sweat blood, you didn't stay.
Culture reboot: Fight for the fans. Fight for each other.
Standard reset: No more half-assing drills or moaning about double sessions.
"How long?" Ethan asked, halfway through his third cup of bad coffee.
Ten Hag considered it, stroking his chin like a Bond villain.
"One year to change. Two years to dominate."
"And if we don't?"
Ten Hag shrugged.
"Well, there's always a career in selling overpriced NFTs."
Ethan laughed for real this time—sharp, loud, alive.
The First Steps
The plan was crystal:
1. Audit the squad—brutally.
2. Prioritize hungry, humble players.
3. Transform training into a battlefield.
4. Reconnect with fans through passion, not PR.
"Fans don't need perfection," Ethan said. "They need to believe again."
Ten Hag nodded.
"They need to see themselves on that pitch."
Grit. Sweat. Fight.
Not hashtags and half-hearted apologies.
Training Ground Chaos
As they wrapped up, a loud thwack echoed across Carrington.
Outside, Alejandro Garnacho had attempted an acrobatic bicycle kick during a passing drill—and landed flat on his back, limbs splayed like a cartoon character who'd just slipped on a banana peel.
"Is he dead?" Ethan asked, peering out the window.
Ten Hag sipped his coffee calmly. "If he is, the physios will revive him. Then I will kill him properly for being stupid."
Ethan nearly choked on his drink laughing.
Moments later, Garnacho staggered to his feet, grinning sheepishly—and promptly tried the exact same move again.
"No fear, at least," Ten Hag said approvingly.
"Also no brains, apparently."
The Promise
As Ethan left Carrington later that morning, a cool breeze tugging at his coat, he paused and looked back across the fields.
The first rays of proper morning sun were just breaking over the training pitches.
He smiled.
This was where the real battle would be fought.
Not in sterile boardrooms.
Not in newspaper columns.
Here.
On the grass. In the mud. Among the shouting, sweat, and silent promises to never let this club fall again.
United's revolution had begun.
And Ethan Cross, stubborn fool that he was, would fight for every inch.
With strategy.
With passion.
And—occasionally—with dumb bicycle kicks.